The last night . . .
the first night . . .
. . . between them - clarity
. . . . . . . .

You left that glass of memory to memory -
let its essence transmute all these nights into gold

You left the voice of Ali Farka Toure
soaring
through the silvered light of a room,
a room inlaid with the jewels of minutes and hours

You left your hands lost in the familiar characters of a vanishing keyboard

You left a wooden rocking-horse
an old teddy-bear propped on a chair
the neighbouring gardens

You left the sun still toying with the sky at eight in the evening

You left a window open
on a morning arrayed with morning

You left a flower labouring towards morning

You deliberately left that peacock arrested in the field of beauty

. . . . . . . . .

Whatever time is left of that night
will never return . . .
These jewels will never return
A sail will never quench its thirst for the horizon

And when you left
you were cast in the bronze of that experience
you were consumed and yet complete
you were fashioned from mother-of-pearl
you were made of unadorned clay

Weekdays returned, empty handed
Routine returned

And silence reigned